


Gone-but-not-forgotten

by tredecaphobia



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-11
Updated: 2012-07-11
Packaged: 2017-11-09 16:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tredecaphobia/pseuds/tredecaphobia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turkey often wondered what he'd missed in life. The Greek War of Independance makes him think more of this than he'd like to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gone-but-not-forgotten

Turkey often wondered what he had missed in life; those that had been Empires couldn’t avoid this speculation. As much as their will to dominate had been bred into their system, so had their creative ability to envision a world different than the one they had been presented (We’ll change this filthy land he had said, his eyes still wet from tears of regret and rage- for having missed a world presented to him a long time ago that he had been to weak to grasp- and one hand clutched a handful of cinnamon hair, not unkindly, as a woman’s child pressed to his thigh), and the spark that allowed them to revolutionize.

He often wondered what his life would have been like missing or altering certain events, and thus came into play the second crucial (and often fatal) aspect of Empires; their former nations. He missed them all; all of the brats (he called them brats, but they were all countries now, all grown) that had lived in his house, made his life worth living. He missed Gupta’s incense-like skin, and eyes like the dawn, Elizaveta’s sunshiny hair and temperament of a wild animal. But every Empire had one that they couldn’t let go. England had his America (and whispered his name at night, as Turkey had had the misfortune of hearing when they shared a room for a conference); Japan had Korea (and would sometimes, much later, shake from the memory of it, until Turkey would still his limbs and the tears of such deep anguish would form that they fell even as Kiku smiled); Russia had Lithuania (and the memory of something golden an sweet had been lost, and it was evident in the youth’s face, twisted in a rectus of outward joy and inward agony, and Turkey wondered how everyone missed it). And he had Greece.

He often wondered what today would be like if Greece’s War of Independence hadn’t happened, if the whole thing hadn’t been so messy, if he hadn’t been such a dick; his posh red divan (trappings he had once prided himself on, and admitted his living room looked far too much like his old harem) might not be so empty (he might not be so alone, but Empires were always alone- though he wasn’t an Empire anymore- with a small utterance to Allah, he would break his rabid train of thought and draw again from his cigarette), occupied instead by the youth with cinnamon curls, Crimean eyes, and the mouth of a gone-but-not-forgotten love.

They would talk, inevitably; Greece reverting back ( unconsciously, with someone he trusted; his eyes would become murky, and he would begin to speak, knotted hands deftly turning his komboloi, his neck long and white as he tilted his head back at the angle of divine inspiration) to his long, punctuationless streams of consciousness, his rambling philosophies (even Aphrodite had her own genesis, he would say, when speaking of orphan conflicts, and he would gesture blatantly at the bulge between his legs and laugh).

They might make love, though Turkey reserved this for acquaintances and people he couldn’t stand; it was often just too much, brought back too much old shit for him to be able to handle running his hands down that olive-tree skin, and seize the handlebar bones of the youth’s hips when it became overwhelming.

They would cook, and domesticize (Herakles donning an apron quite involuntarily to cut cucumbers, wiping his hand of feta on the hips of his jeans, and the sight was like a splinter in Annan’s throat, and for several minutes, he could only agree with small ascensions), and argue lightly where what they were making came from.

Or, that was, before these thoughts would wake him from a sound sleep, and he would go through his prayer beads like a komboloi, until the sickly shaking stopped (and he thought to himself it was unfair that his brain would torment him, even in his unconsciousness, as the feeling of the warm, lapping lips, and sighing breath in his ear remained) and he could look at himself in the bedroom mirror again (and was still shocked he looked as young as he did, skin taught and brass over muscles rippling with such vitality that he could have easily been a hundred years younger- and then when he caught his own gaze in the reflection, peering from the tent of his forearms and knees, that awful haunted olive reminded him again, and he’d have to look away).

But, as they all knew (as all Empires knew, in that half-disbelieving way, you couldn’t still believe they were really gone, not gone forever) there was also the irreversible. And it was as much as Turkey knew that day, in a five-o-clock that held the conference room suspended in an ill-omen of blood-red sun, that meant too much, and meant equally little, when a youth with raven hair and sharp crow-eyes stood coldly and quit the room without even a backward glance. And, following shortly thereafter, his precious Eliza, who at least allowed him her old expression, and not the one that had been forced onto her with that ridiculous frilly apron, her eyes wild and cold, and her face still and defiant. (Russia had been there, too, but fuck Russia- these were his babies leaving him without a wayward word or moment’s hesitation).

The room had been chokingly silent as Turkey realized he’d missed another chance, another few words that he might have made something, anything, different. He hadn’t even realized the rest of the conference members had left the room when he was starlted by Greece’s warm calloused hand dropping onto Turkey’s shoulder (Allah, when had the kid gotten so damn big- his hand easily encompassed the older man’s upper arm), and further taken aback by the kid’s gentle expression of hesitance.

“Bulgaria…” He began, his eyes shifting as he searched for adequate words, while his fingers shifted with an involuntary rhythm on Turkey’s shoulder. “Is Bulgaria. You’re an asshole… but not always a bad one.” Annan, who could hardly believe what he had been hearing, and could only gaze, slightly openmouthed, at this kid (the little brat who’s child-soft cinnamon hair he’d not so long ago trapped in his fingers), who struggled a while longer to find something appropriate to the situation and, upon finding none he could easily say, simply looked back to the man (this man, who had defiled him, who had subjugated him for centuries, stripped him of his civilization and then made him beg for more). “Let’s catch a movie and cook Mediterranean or something.”

And Annan thought, as the youth twined his fingers into the man’s hand (they were so large now- neither had to fight for comfort, and they looked about equally matched- both hands scarred with centuries of medals fighting against each other for honor, though Annan had hid inner turmoils with the effectiveness of hiding his soul, donning a mask and leather gloves) and led him from the room, that perhaps Greece’s War of Independence hadn’t been that bad after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The Balkan Pact of 1934 included Greece, Romania, Yugoslavia, and Turkey. Bulgaria refused to join. Along with Hungary. Ouch.


End file.
